


warn against bipartisan fighting

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: white house 'verse [17]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aaron 'leave me alone' Burr, Alexander 'sleep is a foreign concept' Hamilton, Alexander fails at human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Doctors being Sneaky, Friendship, Gen, George Washington is done with everyone's shit, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, James Madison is scary when he's angry, Lafayette: actual cinnamon roll, President Hamilton, Taxing the sun: a senatorial debate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-29 00:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11429283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: Alexander and Aaron were behaving oddly. It didn't take a genius to figure out why.---In other news: the 2nd Amendment discussion, a Senate debate gone FUBAR, and a glimpse into a normal day for George Westchester.





	warn against bipartisan fighting

**Author's Note:**

> *Comes out of hiding. Glances around. Sees no one. Throws up chapter. Runs away.*
> 
> * * *
> 
> In remembrance of Alexander Hamilton's death. Enjoy.

_Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
Decentralized government is like non-alcoholic beer: it's useless.

 _James Morrow_ @JemmyMorrow  
@AdotHam You seem to forget that smaller and more local governments are more responsive to the people  & can better accommodate their specific wishes.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

Drawwood's eye twitched. She huffed.

"But you can tax a lot of different items if you want to stop behaviour," Smith paused, as if to try to remember where he was going with his speech. Drawwood resisted the urge to grit her teeth, because, at four in the morning, obstinate senators with not enough IQ to open a door were grating on her nerves. Smith coughed, then spoke again. "You know, I love ice cream."

Good God, this _could_ _not_ be her life.

"Ice cream is probably not the most healthy thing to eat,” Smith went on blithely, sleep deprivation evident in his voice. “Why is there not a tax on that? You know what, if you look at the number one cause of skin cancer, it's not tanning beds. Do a Google search. It's the sun.”

At that, Drawwood did grit her teeth. She had so many better things to do with her time than _this_.

“So I noticed that people over here haven't found too many taxes that they dislike.” Drawwood made a quiet sound of frustration, “so why have they not proposed a tax on the sun?” Smith concluded smugly.

Senator Levin from Michigan raised his hand, and Morrow reluctantly gave him the word, a resigned look on his face. Well. Drawwood could certainly empathize with that. “To relate ice cream to tanning is a serious mistake,” Levin said slowly, as though making his speech up as he went. “There is a major difference in the impact."

“Why did you not look at a sun tax?” Smith persisted. “Because that's the number one cause of skin cancer.”

Levin rolled his eyes. “I'll tell you why: because it's a little hard to tax the sun,” he drawled, “and because—“

“ _Spain_ taxes the sun,” Smith declared.

“No, no, Bill—“

“ _Spain_ taxes the sun,” Smith insisted, “so I'm just curious.”

Levin scoffed. “I don't know how they _tax the sun—_ “

“I'll send you an article,” Smith told him.

Drawwood let her head fall on the table, ignoring both the resulting echo that—thankfully—silenced Senator Smith, and Vice President Morrow's reproaching look. She looked up at Morrow as whispers broke out. “Vice President Morrow, I propose that we reconvene at a later time. If our senators resort to trying to propose extraterrestrial taxes, it is a sign that we all suffer from sleep deprivation, and we will probably do more harm than good by now.”

Smith stood up, anger on his face. “Now _wait_ , I deserve the right to—“

“Even assuming that we could succeed in such a thing,” Drawwood cut him off icily, “which we cannot since it's ridiculous and outrageous and quite frankly _a stupid notion_ , how do you propose to enforce such a tax?” she asked rhetorically. “More importantly, who would pay for it? The sun? Fair chance of that happening,” she scoffed. “American citizens, maybe?

“In saying that you want to tax the sun, you're essentially claiming the sun as your private property. Besides, Spain doesn't tax the sun itself, just _the people using solar panels,_ ” Drawwood corrected. “And would everyone please stop comparing frozen yoghurt desserts to a burning ball of gas?”

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

_Featured BuzzFeed articles:_

A Presidential Proposal? A Close-Up

Why Gilbert du Motier Is The Ultimate LGBT+ Role Model

President Hampton and Secretary du Motier’s plans for their wedding!

Will Hampton Plan A Themed Wedding?

These Mike Pence Memes Have Taken Over The Internet

33 Incredible Reactions to #potuswedding

Quiz: Do You Have What It Takes To Work At The White House?

Presidential Wedding During Campaign Season — Romantic Gesture Or Political Suicide?

Leaked: Guest List For #potuswedding

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

 _Hamwatch_ @hamwatch  
As rumours continue to abound, President Hampton remains silent on his and Sec. du Motier's wedding plans.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

“Okay,” Alexander said. “Lafayette, you’ve got a meeting with the French president—yes, the reincarnated one. Drawwood, you’re in charge of the White House. Don’t blow it up.”

“Yes sir.” Drawwood grinned. “I solemnly swear I’ll be the best Acting President you’ve ever had.”

Alexander smirked. “I wouldn’t say that in front of James if I were you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” she chirped.

Alexander suddenly chuckled. “Remind me to sometime tell you the story of how James once switched my coffee for decaf. It almost was the end of our friendship,” he mentioned casually.

Drawwood blinked. “Sir?” she asked carefully.

“Never mind,” Alexander waved his hand dismissively. “Have a great day. I’ll try not to kill my reputation at the Congress.”

“And remember, sir,” Drawwood shouted after him, “don't agree to tax any stars!”

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

At the entrance to the capitol, Alexander was met by none other than Thomas Jenkins.

“Hampton,” Thomas greeted him with a nod.

“Jenkins,” Alexander returned in kind. He looked at the door, then back at Thomas. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Then let’s go.”

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

“ _Do you even hear yourself speak_?” Alexander yelled at the taller man two hours later.

“Yes, but _you_ obviously don’t,” Thomas drawled. “You’ve invented a new kind of stupid, and you don’t even realize it.”

“If I wanted someone to put words in my mouth, I’d be debating Maria.”

Thomas threw up his hands, in equal parts furious and exasperated. “Well, you seem to have both sides of this conversation well in hand. I can apparently stop supporting high school theatre clubs, because this right here is a perfect example of a one-man comedy worthy of Molière.”

“Would you two please,” James yelled suddenly, “be quiet and let someone else speak.”

“Yeah, let the Father of the Constitution speak!” Senator Inhofe added.

“Well, James,” Alexander growled, “in case you haven’t noticed, not every issue can be settled by committee.”

James glared. “Recess,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Mr President, _a word_.”

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

Alexander was behaving oddly. Granted, by any reasonable standards, most days around Alexander were odd, but this one took the cake. It didn't take a genius to figure out the reason for the change in Alexander's behaviour.

When James entered the Oval Office for the 7 AM debrief — moved from the customary 9 AM to accommodate Alexander and James, who had to be at the Senate in an hour and a half — Alexander was already at his desk, typing away at full speed, only occasionally stopping to compare something against another document. The room was silent except for the clicking of the keyboard.

James knocked on the door frame. No reaction. James sighed internally. If this didn't take him back to college...

“Alexander?” James asked when it became apparent that Alexander wasn't going to look up for anything less than a hurricane.

Alexander finally looked up. He blinked, taking in James. His eyes widened when he registered James’ presence. “Morning, James,” he said. The shadows under his eyes hadn't been as prominent since he was shot, James noted with mounting concern.

“Have you slept anything?” James asked, dreading the answer.

Alexander shrugged. “A bit,” he said, strangely cryptically.

One of James’ eyebrows rose up into his hairline. “ _A bit_?” he repeated.

Alexander scrunched up his nose. “You're not my babysitter.”

“No, and I thank heavens for that every day,” James deadpanned, aiming at getting a smile out of Alexander.

It didn't have the desired effect. Alexander only frowned. “Why are you—” he looked at the clock, drawing in a breath of understanding. “Ah, yes. The debrief. I believe General Salt should be here any minute.”

As if overhearing Alexander's words, the door opened to reveal a diminutive woman, her greying dark hair put up in a bun, giving her an eerie similarity to Professor McGonagall.

“Sir,” General Salt said, nodding first to Alexander, then to James, as procedure dictated. “I’m ready if you are.”

With a wave, Alexander motioned for her to go ahead. James tried to put his concerns for Alexander aside, wanted to be able to give the debrief the focus he knew it deserved, but found that he could not.

After the briefing, Alexander had an appointment with the Secretary of Health and Human Services—something about the monthly outline of utilized healthcare per state—while James was supposed to be meeting with one of the Republican congressmen, a meeting requested by the congressman himself.

The meeting was, predictably, boring, even for James, who has, on top of his previous experience as president, had almost two decades to get used to the lather that passed for politics these days.

On the way from the meeting, James ran into a distraught Lafayette, in an all-too literal way. Physics dictated that James, being the shorter of the two, should take the brunt of the impact, and physics wasn't known to take days off. Papers scattering everywhere, James tripped and fell; Lafayette tried to catch him but missed, hand grasping air.

“Sorry,” the Frenchman said, crouching and gathering the strewn papers into piles.

James waved away the concern. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” he stood up, accepting his papers with a nod. “You seem in a hurry. Is everything alright?”

Lafayette glanced away, as if watching something in the distance. "It's Alexander," he spoke finally. James tilted his head. Lafayette glanced around, ascertaining that there wasn’t anyone within listening distance. “He didn’t sleep last night,” he confided.

James sighed. Of course he didn’t. “You do know what day it is,” he said to Lafayette.

Lafayette nodded. “I'm going to check up Aaron,” he said impulsively. “Since we both know he's not going to the Senate. He's probably holed up in his office, planning to avoid the problem and hope it goes away, as usual.”

“Good call,” James nodded. “I'm going to hunt us an Alexander.”

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
July 12 th – the day America lost one of her most prosperous citizens.

 _Thomas Jenkins_ @Francoholic  
@AdotHam More like one of her biggest assholes.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

James found Alexander in the exact same position as he had left him —hunched over his desk, typing at full speed. It almost made him wonder whether he attended his meeting with the Health Secretary.

James didn’t bother knocking this time, seeing as the knocking success rate was the same as George W. Bush’s approval ratings.

“You need to take today off,” James said without preamble, his words bordering on an order.

“ _I can't_!” Alexander protested. “If I do, there's not going to be anyone to call you and Jenkins out on your bullshit ideas about guns.”

“Mr President,” James said formally, “with all due respect, I can give you my word as Vice President of the United States that nobody's going to debate anything gun-related.”

“You can't make that promise,” Alexander objected.

“Yes, I _can_. In case you've forgotten,” James reminded him, “I'm in charge of these debates. _I_ get to decide what's on today's agenda.”

“Along with Speaker Pelosi,” Alexander pointed out.

“Pelosi isn't going to be a problem,” James cut him off brusquely. “Don't bother showing up today. Talk to your attorney general instead.”

Alexander's eyes narrowed. “I was under the impression that _I_ was the president.”

“That's just it — an impression,” Lafayette said cheerfully from behind them.

Alexander scowled. “Aren't you supposed to be on _my_ side?” he accused.

“Petit lion,” Lafayette said gently, “I love you dearly, but I do not wish to alienate James.”

Alexander threw his hands up in the air in resignation. “Does _anyone_ still remember who's president?” he asked rhetorically.

Lafayette snickered. “Anyway,” he said, changing the topic as smoothly as Thomas flirted with women, “I have places to be. Burr’s in his office, by the way,” he threw over his shoulder.

“Go,” James repeated once Lafayette disappeared out of sight. “Talk to him. You both need it.”

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

 _Donald J .Trump_ @realDonaldTrump  
@AdotHam takes day off to golf instead of doing his job. CNN defends: ‘POTUS needs a break’. FAKE NEWS!

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
The only person guilty of fake news is @realDonaldTrump .

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

Alexander knocked on the door to Aaron's office. No response. Alexander tried the door handle, only to discover that the door was locked.

“Are you okay? “Alexander asked tentatively, unsure of how to approach this situation. He still didn't quite know how _he_ felt today; he was probably the least-qualified person to play therapist to Aaron Bartow.

“I'm fine,” came the muffled answer from behind the door.

Alexander frowned. “You don't _sound_ fine,” he pointed out.

“Why wouldn't I be?” Aaron's voice retorted. “It's not as if this day has some special meaning or anything. It's just a normal Wednesday. Nothing to worry about.” His voice was infused with enough venom to take down a mammoth — if only the AAAS would admit to having re-created one instead of trying to hide the fact. They should have _known_ that there was no hiding stuff like that from Alexander; he had _the fucking NSA_ on speed dial.

“Sarcasm doesn't suit you.”

A pause. “Obliviousness doesn't suit _you_ ,” Aaron shot back.

Alexander leaned against the door. “What can I do to help?” he asked.

“Go away. Leave me alone. Do whatever it is you usually do on Wednesdays.”

“You know I can't do that,” Alexander said with what he thought was remarkable calmness. “Open the door, and let me help.”

“Or what?” Aaron's voice turned derisive. “You'll endorse my opponent in my next enterprise? You'll ruin my reputation? In case you haven’t noticed, I seem to be doing a splendid job without your help, Hamilton.”

“Aaron—” Alexander tried again. “Please, just open the door and we can—”

He was cut off when the door he had been leaning against was suddenly wrenched open. He fell backwards into Aaron’s office, and met Aaron’s furious eyes.

“I _know_ it's been over two hundred years,” Aaron said apropos nothing. “I know I've had so much other shit to deal with, in both lifetimes. This shouldn't even still affect me but God, _it does._ And the worst part is that it's all my fault. Don’t interrupt me,” Aaron said when he saw that Alexander opened his mouth, was about to object. “I know what you're going to say — it was a choice we both made to agree to the duel, and we knew that there were risks. You're going to say that you goaded me into shooting. That doesn't change the fact that, in the end, it was _my own choice_ to aim that gun at you and fire it. Yes, the accuracy of firearms was terrible back then, but I was conscious of my actions — I knew the potential consequences of aiming at you and pulling the trigger. It's not as if it was some great secret I hadn't been privy to prior to killing you. You seem to forget I've fought a war. You didn't force me to fire my pistol — if anything, you tried to dissuade me from that. Let's face it — it's all on me. I was the one to destroy my own life. In that sense, I guess we're not as different as you'd think, huh?” Aaron concluded with a bitter smile.

Alexander’s mind felt blank as he tried to process the information he had been bombarded with. He ran through several potential answer strategies. He was tempted to write it off with humour, the same way he coped with more or less every obstacle he came across.

After careful consideration, however, there was really only one way to proceed. _Dammit, James._

Alexander raised a hand to forestall any further words from Aaron. "Aaron, it's not just your fault. Yes, you did fire the pistol, but you were more than warranted in doing so."

"No excuse is strong enough to forgive _murder_ ," Aaron retorted. "I am a murderer, plain and simple."

"If you are, then so am I," Alexander said resolutely, finally sitting up. He dusted off his suit. "I fought in the war too, remember? I've killed people, simply because they wore different uniforms."

"That isn't the same thing," Aaron dismissed. "That was a war, and in wars, some things are necessary. What I did was cold-blooded murder, no less and no more."

"Was it?" Alexander returned. "Different, I mean. One thing I've come to realize — far too late in life, I fear — is that any kind of ending a person's life against their will, no matter if legally justified, is morally wrong. In that aspect, you might have the moral ground, actually — I can't deny that it didn't occur to me that the duel might be one way to end my suffering and make a name for myself. All I had to do was die," Alexander paraphrased with a grimace.

"You were suicidal?" Aaron asked, surprised despite himself. He shook his head. "It doesn't change anything. I didn't know about that. As far as I knew, you very much wanted to live."

"You thought that I wanted to kill you. It was self-defense in every definition of the word."

"But you _didn't_ want to kill me."

"Yes, but you didn't discover that until far too late," Alexander retorted. He stood up to be able to talk at Aaron’s level, but the height difference was such that Alexander still only reached to Aaron’s chin.

"That doesn't excuse my actions."

"You just used my exact reasoning to argue that you killing me was different from me killing the British during the war. You have to choose whether this reasoning can be used. You cannot have it both ways." Alexander pursed his lips "Remember how you used to scold me for being so hot-headed? 'There's the kid who almost shot Charles Lee in the face'? I would have done it, too, if John hadn't done it for me."

"Except you didn't,” Aaron reminded him.

"But I _wanted_ to. And you just asserted that it was the intent behind the action that matters, not the action itself."

"This is irrelevant."

"See, this is the second time that you dismiss my arguments, which were based on _your_ reasoning."

"That's because your arguments are in no way similar to mine."

"They _are_. You simply refuse to acknowledge that, and you know why? Because if you did, you'd be forced to accept that what happened wasn't entirely your fault, and that there was nothing you could have done differently, based on the information you had. That you couldn't have changed it. And that feeling of powerlessness is _terrifying_. That's what I think you're running from," Alexander concluded smugly.

Aaron bit back a frustrated growl. "Why do you constantly have to put your nose where it doesn't belong?" he muttered under his breath.

Alexander grinned. "Pardon?" he said innocently. "I couldn't quite hear you. Could you repeat that?"

Judging by Alexander's expression, he had heard _exactly_ what Aaron had said. Well, screw him. Aaron was _not_ going to be tricked into repeating himself. "Aren't you feeling... strange today?” he asked instead. “After all, _you_ were the one who died, and yet here you are, comforting _me_ ," Aaron gestured around them vaguely, not quite sure what he was trying to convey. Oh well. Alexander was going to draw his own conclusions anyway.

Alexander made a sound in the back of his throat. “I suppose, but I wasn't the one affected by it. You were, and I wanted to help you with it. Help myself by helping you and all that. Well," he corrected himself with a chuckle, "what I _really_ wanted to do was to argue for gun control today, but Jemmy wouldn't let me into the Senate."

Aaron sighed. "Has it occurred to you that it might have been because you serve as a double physical reminder of why we need stricter gun control? You've wasted a brilliant opportunity to win everyone's sympathy," he said astutely.

Alexander swore. "That _skurwysyn_. That he had the sheer nerve—"

Aaron cracked a tentative smile. "Was that Polish?"

"Yeah," Alexander said, distracted. His eyes blazed. "I'm going to actually _gut him_ ," he growled.

Aaron smirked. "You seem to forget that, for all that James is content, for the most part, to play ball with you and compromise, he is still very much James Madison, arguably the founder with the most political power, and one of the most accomplished politicians in our history. When he sees an opportunity, he seizes it."

Alexander sniffed. “This isn’t helpful. Why have I hired you again?”

Aaron’s face was carefully blank as he said, “To provide you with advice and wisdom — neither of which you seem willing to accept, but here we are.”

“I could have you fired, you know,” Alexander told him factually. “Especially on a day like today.”

Aaron stifled a scoff. He knew Alexander far too well to fall for his usual tricks. “I feel like there’s a power imbalance here,” he shot back.

“You're right. There was an imbalance, because I'm the fucking _president_ ,” Alexander replied with a distinct smug note to his voice.

Alexander’s phone rang. He glanced at it. “This _better_ be a national emergency,” he muttered.

“ _Yes_ ,” Aaron rolled his eyes, “we wouldn't want to be stopping you from emailing the Post with corrections to their Saturday quizzes.”

Alexander stuck out his tongue at Aaron before assuming a serious facial expression. “Hello, this is President Hampton.”

Aaron watched Alexander’s face grew inscrutable with every word. “When?” Alexander asked the caller quietly. He glanced at the clock. “Shit,” he swore. “Fucking—has word gotten out yet? Never mind, dumb question, of course it has. I want a statement drafted for the press conference. Yes, _of course I’m going to change it_ , but that’s beside the point. Listen—” Alexander was cut off, and Aaron could hear Angelica’s voice at the other end. “No, Smith, don’t call him yet. I want you to inform Schmidt and Lafayette, as well as Sasha and Greg. I need them here. And you as well,” he said sharply. “Meeting in the Oval in five,” he said sharply before disconnecting the call. He strode out of Aaron’s office, forcing Aaron to job in order to catch up with him.

“What’s happening?” Aaron asked, startled by Alexander’s sudden shift from goofy to deadly serious in a matter of seconds.

Alexander stopped, his shoulder’s stiffening. He glanced up at Aaron. There was a resignation in the man’s voice that he had never heard before. “There’s been a shooting at the Senate. Charlie Dent, Markwayne Mullin, and Chris Christie are dead.”

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

> _“…the bullet hitting the fifth lumbar vertebrae, and causing a T6 injury—in other words, permanent paralysis to the legs and the lower body. The White House extends its sincerest condolences to Governor Pence. Other casualties include the two congressmen, Pennsylvania’s Charlie Dent, and Oklahoma’s Markwayne Mullin, as well as Governor Christie, whose bodies have been transported for immediate autopsy…"_

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

“James, you fucking _asshole_ ,” were the first words out of Alexander’s mouth when James entered the White House lobby. Alexander went on, disregarding the herd of reporters crowding just outside. “You _ditched_ me here.”

James blinked. Whatever welcoming committee he had been expecting, this hadn’t been it. “Well,” James said slowly, “at least you were safe from the shooter.”

“I would have been anyway,” Alexander argued. “He only targeted conservatives—which means _you_ could have been not as lucky. It could have been you in that hospital, or on that autopsy table.”

“But it wasn’t,” James said, not flinching at Alexander’s words. “Let’s not deal with ‘could have been’s. They’ve never helped anyone.”

The door to the corridor opened and a pale Angelica stepped out, face drained of all emotion save exhaustion.

Alexander grabbed her arm. “Angelica, help me out here,” he demanded. “James refuses to accept the fact that—”

“Alexander, be quiet,” Angelica snapped, wrenching her arm out of Alexander’ grip.

Distantly, Alexander registered the sound of cameras going off. He could practically sense the excited mood of the crowd behind them.

“Angeli—”

“Alexander,” Angelica said sweetly. “For once in your life, please shut up. I’m having a really bad day. There’s been a shooting at the Senate; two congressmen and a governor are dead, another is in critical condition, and twenty more have suffered injuries. The MSNBC is doing a report on the White House productivity, and it’s _not_ favourable towards us. It doesn’t help that _you_ are a liberal version of Donald Trump when it comes to Twitter; I’ve already been advised by your chief of staff to assign someone to check your tweets before you post them. Even as we’re here, squabbling, the reporters behind us are taking pictures for their next front page article about your inability to control yourself. The Pakistani government is accusing us of being biased towards India in the Indo-Pakistani conflict. Your tweets cause one scandal after another, Congressman Rosmarth is threatening to sue us on grounds of false advertising, and I burned my girlfriend’s breakfast this morning. Now, show that you have at least an ounce of something approaching compassion, and _shut up_.”

She then weaved her way through the small crowd that had appeared stopping James and Alexander, before coming to a halt in front of the reporters. She deftly ignored their persistent questions, and raised her hand to silence them. Miraculously, it worked, as, one and all, the reporters turned to stare expectantly at Angelica.

“Thank you,” she said courteously. “As you may have already guessed, the White House has no further comment on the situation, and,” she snapped her fingers when several of the reporters began shouting questions again, “I can promise you that there isn't going to be another comment until our regular press briefing tonight. Now, we all know that here isn't where the story is — it's at the Capitol, and in that hospital. If you want an actual story, something that your readers will lap up, go to those places instead. Tell the story of a coward who decided to solve all of his problems with a gun; tell the story of the three representatives of the people, whose lives have been cut short by a senseless act of fear and ignorance, and of the two people whose lives will change irrevocably after this. Tell their story, be their voice. The president might not agree with the Republicans’ political agenda, but nobody deserves to be killed for expressing their opinions — and yes, Langdon, you may quote the president on that,” she added, watching the reporter from _The_ _Washington Post_ scramble to formulate his question. Honestly, _journalists_. “The story isn't here — it's out there.”

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 _Washington Post_ @washingtonpost  
President Hampton: “Nobody deserves to be killed for expressing their opinions.” #prayingforpeace  
_4 368 223 reblogs_

 _Donald J. Trump_ @realDonaldTrump  
@AdotHam can’t guarantee safety at ‘safest building in the world’. GROSS INCOMPETENCE!

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_[The following is an excerpt from transcript of Senate debate, date: 07/14/17.]_

PRESIDENT HAMPTON: While, in an utopia, I'd be all for the local government since it can better respond to every citizen's personal problems, we don't, in fact, live in a utopia. We need centralized power because it's more effective, both in terms of laws, trade, and the military.

VICE PRESIDENT MORROW: Liberty of choice is one of the core values on which this country was built. We need to allow people to bear arms, if we have done a thorough check to make sure they aren't a danger to our society — both in terms of foreign terrorists and local crazy people or delusional fanatics.

PRESIDENT HAMPTON: The right to bear arms isn't actually a right but was a way for citizens to be able to defend themselves against a militia rebellion, so by that logic, we would need to provide nukes to people because people would need to have 'equal weapons’ to the military to be able to defend themselves. Still, there is one part of the Vice President's statement that I agree with entirely: the security of the citizens should come first. We _[illegible]_ thorough background checks before we can allow people to buy firearms. Furthermore, yes, our country is built on choices, so, though it may not be my favourite solution, we need to let the people who pass the checks buy firearms and trust that they will use their best judgement.

MR JENKINS: We can't limit people's freedom endlessly. At some point, we do need to give the people the benefit of the doubt.

PRESIDENT HAMPTON: But to be able to give people the benefit of the doubt, they have to be reasonably mentally stable individuals. Mentally insane people can't make that kind of call, and shouldn't have access to firearms.

MR JENKINS: As Trevor Noah said: yes, when we first realized that planes could be used as weapons, we increased the security around them so that 9/11 wouldn't happen again, and that's what we're going to do with firearms as well. But we can't take away _[illegible]_ just because they might be used for bad. So can fireworks. So can stones.

PRESIDENT HAMPTON: The difference between stones and guns being that stones weren't invented with the explicit purpose of being used to shoot at people and kill them.

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“Well, this has certainly been an eventful debate,” Wolf Blitzer commented. “Have any of you noticed Westchester’s clothing choice today? It’s certainly very interesting.”

The image froze, panning out to reveal Stephen Colbert’s face. “Yes,” Stephen said mockingly, the sarcasm sharp enough to cut through stone, “George Westchester’s clothing choices are _very interesting_ , says CNN. I say, why not take it a step further? Isn’t it obvious that the colour scheme of his suit a direct reflection of his ideals? Haven’t you noticed,” his voice turned overly eager, “that he wore _purple_ today? That’s a _sure_ sign of him leaning towards Jefferson’s ideals. Sorry, _Jenkins’_ ,” he corrected. “Don’t kill me, Mr Former President,” the fake news host grinned into the camera. “Now, in _actual_ news, it’s just been revealed that the Dutch king had a secret job as an airline pilot. Kind of makes you wonder whether all those photos of Queen Elizabeth have a grain of truth to them.”

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 _CNN_ @cnn  
BREAKING NEWS: Pence 180’s on the Disabilities In Community Koalition act!

 _Peggy Scott_ @margarita32  
@cnn ‘Breaking news’ my ass. @mike_pence is a fucking hypocrite, only supporting a bill that would benefit him personally. Shame on you, governor jackass.

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> _tuucker  
>  _ My doctor is JK Rowling's husband.  
>  JK Rowling's husband has asked me if I am sexually active.

_aaronburr-it’s-cold-sir_  
yo listen up I've got a story to tell  
so my regular doctor took paternity leave bc he's awesome like that  & believes in equal parenting  
and guess who was his replacement on today's check up  
that's right folks  
GEORGE MOTHERFUCKING WESTCHESTER  
THE FATHER OF OUR NATION HAS SEEN ME IN AN ASSLESS GOWN I'M DYING

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•

George loved being a doctor. It had been his dream for as long as he had remembered: being able to help people to the best of his abilities, working tirelessly to preserve one of the most valuable parts in the human existence—health—yet keeping mostly to the shadows. George found that shadows suited him better than the stark limelight of a politician’s stage, and were better for his blood pressure, too.

George even liked the social aspect of his profession—the peculiar workings of a hospital, the gossip mill, the ever-changing patients. Despite being undeniably awkward in social situations, George genuinely liked people. He liked talking to people, but never for too long, and a short doctor-patient conversation suited him just fine. The hospital staff was another thing, ever-present, but, contrary to what the medical soap operas would have one believe, there wasn’t that much time to sit around and gossip during one’s shift. There was always that one more patient that had miraculously appeared, or a minor malfunction that had escalated to a minor crisis, or, on one memorable occasion, a baby deer that had broken into one of their supply closets and had become too scared to leave on its own.

Most of the time, George loved doing what he did. Sometimes, however, George hated it—or, more to the point, he hated when his patients turned out to be his fans. How he even _had_ fans without really having achieved anything escaped him, but here he was, the butt joke of Chase’s betting pool.

George has gradually reluctantly become used to his patients being starstruck upon finding out his name — thus his new habit of only introducing himself by his first name and hoping they didn't make the connection between George the kind and socially awkward doctor, and the reincarnation of George Washington. Most of them didn't, which was helped by the fact that George shied away from posting any of his pictures on public social media — those he did post were visible only to a select group of people George trusted.

Still, there was the occasional patient who recognized George, at which time George usually had to beseech them not to start shouting his identity for all to hear. Most listened immediately, and the ones who didn’t were persuaded by George’s offer at signing whatever they wanted signed—usually a one-dollar bill, practical since everyone had one laying around their wallet (George purposefully ignored the fact that signing it was technically illegal, since it was defacing government currency).

Even George's regular patients, people he had cared for for the past twenty years, had gone through an initial shock over the fact that they had George Washington — Westchester, dammit — for a doctor. Those were easier to deal with, as George inevitably did or said something that reminded them that, at the end of the day, _he_ hadn't changed — their perception of him had.

Alexander had his own take on the matter (didn’t he always?), arguing that, since everyone already knew about him being Washington, he should use it to his advantage in the upcoming salary negotiations, but George wasn’t in the medical business to become rich, but to help people get better. Sure, a little economic freedom was nice, but his salary was already large enough for him. Adding in Martha’s royalties from her books, and, well. Using a euphemism, they weren’t all that bad off.

Chase, with his perpetually cheerful Australian accent, had, to George's perpetual exasperation, set up a point system where he calculated the exact odds of a patient recognizing George, based on gender, age, ethnicity, and social status. His method was disconcertingly accurate. George didn’t know what to do with that.

Other staffers had mostly had time to get over the shock of working with George Washington, as well as their idolatry for him, although there were still the odd young and idealistic nurse who got starstruck over working with _the_ George Washington.

Case in point: Manny McMasters.

"What's it like working with George Washington?" Nurse McMasters asked eagerly.

Doctor Cameron shrugged. "Normal, I guess? I mean he's still just a man, and any hero-worship one might have for the guy tends to wane off rather quickly after watching him plant his face into a plate full of spaghetti sauce. He looked like a more handsome Donald Trump."

As if summoned, Doctor Tall, Dark, and Venerable himself appeared behind Cameron, his face pulled up into a grimace.

"Allison, can you help me find our beloved overlord? He's been avoiding me since I requested Tylko's transfer last Thursday,” he said gruffly.

"Sure,” Cameron agreed readily. “But you do realize that our hospital is extremely tiny, right It's hard to fail to find someone for five consecutive days,” she pointed out with a snicker.

George rolled his eyes, before peering closer at Cameron, who seemed on the verge of bursting out laughing. "What are you doing?" he asked suspiciously.

Cameron smirked. "Oh, _nothing_ ," she waved him off. "I was just telling McMasters over here," she pointed at the nurse, who has an expression not unlike a deer caught in the headlights, clearly unprepared to have come face to face with his idol, "about that time you decided to acquaint your lunch with your face rather than your mouth."

George groaned. Cameron cackled. "Don't remind me," George begged. "I'll do... well, not _anything_ , but close to it."

Cameron pretended to think. "I don’t think so, Westchester," she said. "I like that story too much to trade it off for a favour."

George dragged a hand across his face. "I hate you.”

"You say the sweetest things," Cameron purred.

George paused. “Will you help me or not?” he eventually asked.

Cameron looked up. “What’s in it for me?” she parried.

“The knowledge of having done a good deed?” George tried.

Cameron pretended to think. “Nah,” she shook her head. “Not good enough for me.”

Beside her, McMasters was giving her a wide-eyed look, looking suitably shocked at the fact that Cameron was blatantly blackmailing George.

“On the other hand,” Cameron went on, “if you’d be so kind as to tell Spencer to fuck off in that polite way of yours, I’d be more than happy to help you find Rutherford.”

George didn’t even blink at her offer. “Deal.”

“Rutherford’s in the surgery lounge,” Cameron said promptly.

“You knew where—” George said incredulously, before scoffing. “Never mind. I’ll talk to Spencer for you. Later, Cameron, McMasters.”

McMasters glanced at the space where George had been standing, then back down at Cameron, who was grinning like the cat who caught the canary. “Is this a hallucination?” he asked hesitantly.

“Nope,” Cameron replied with a shrug. “That’s just Westchester for you. Welcome to Virginia Medical.”

 

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> _fantasizing-about-adamsandlers-eyes  
>  _ The saddest thing about this is that the moment that defined their legacy was the one time they acted like the other: Hamilton acted like Burr, because _of course Burr wouldn't shoot I mean have you met Burr, _ while Burr acted like Hamilton because _this is the guy who was willing to throw his life away for any blemish on his honour_.

_jeffersauce_  
that’s basically what  LMM said  
_[Source: ComedyCentral]_

**Author's Note:**

> So. I'm still alive.
> 
> Special thanks to [allonsy_gabriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel), the Hamilton to my Burr. Hope you haven't died of chocolate poisoning.
> 
> A quick update on my current pet project and upcoming fic: I'm working on a royal!Hamilton/Jefferson modern AU, and I am _pumped_.


End file.
